


don't know why, just know i want you

by thehungagayums



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Canonverse AU, F/M, basically a lot of fluff and delinquent antics, bellarke AU, dropship setting, season 1 AU, the 100 au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-11 13:09:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8981065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehungagayums/pseuds/thehungagayums
Summary: “Come here for a sec,” Jasper says, beckoning to her. She’s hovering uncertainly at a safe distance, and Bellamy almost, almost tells her to beat a hasty retreat, but it’s too late for that. “We’re playing Slap or Kiss. Wanna join?”He swears that her eyes flicker for a brief moment to Finn, to Raven, before something flashes across Clarke’s face and she shakes her head. “Um, I think I should probably—get back to the dropship.”Octavia sighs. “You’re no fun,” she complains. “You and Bell.”Bellamy feels her eyes on him, and he meets her gaze with a hooded stare. She studies him with a raised eyebrow, her face unreadable. Then Clarke turns back to the group.“Hey, I’m fun,” she retorts. “I can be fun.”“Prove it, then,” Jasper taunts.She hesitates, and then casts another dubious glance at Bellamy, who’s still standing with his arms crossed defensively over his chest. He quirks an eyebrow at her in return.“Fine, I’ll play,” she says, conceding, and then nods at Bellamy. “But only if he plays, too.”[or, Bellamy gets roped into playing Slap or Kiss with the delinquents, and he's not happy about it.]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "James Joint" / Rihanna [ANTI]
> 
> Season 1 AU, post 1x08, where Clarke and Bellamy aren't exactly friends but they don't completely hate each other either, and things are complicated because I love angst and antagonistic!Bellarke.

It isn’t that Bellamy is opposed to the kids having a little fun, after long days of building barriers and target practice and hunting and foraging for food. He isn’t a _total_ jackass, after all. It’s just that he’s not about to play this stupid game with a bunch of punch-drunk teenagers. He’s twenty-two, for fuck’s sake, and he’s so used to watching out for them that he can’t set it aside for a night and pretend to be one of them.

Slap or Kiss, it’s called. Some stupid drinking game, which looks like a combination of Spin the Bottle and a fight club. He’s watched the group of them huddled by the bonfire for a little while from the edge of camp, watched them trade vicious slaps and heated kisses to raucous cheers. At some point, Octavia must have noticed him hovering, and called him over.

Bad decision.

“Come on, Bell. Lighten up,” she coaxes. “It could be _fun_.”

He scoffs, and crosses his arms over his chest. “Yeah, I think I’ll pass.”

“What’s wrong, Blake? Scared of getting slapped?” Raven calls from her place on the opposite edge of the circle, half-sprawled across Miller’s lap and her arm dangling around Finn’s neck.

Bellamy barely dignifies that with a response, turning back to Octavia instead. “I really should be on guard. The Grounders—”

“—aren’t coming anytime soon,” Octavia says curtly. “Sit down already.”

He mutters under his breath, but before he has a chance to sit at the fray of the circle, he sees someone emerging from the dropship.

“Clarke!” Jasper sits up in a flash, starts waving his arms above his head. “Hey, Clarke!”

Bellamy watches, wary, as Clarke’s head snaps in the group’s direction. “Yeah, everything okay?” she calls, drawing closer to the fire.

“Come here for a sec,” Jasper says, beckoning to her. She’s hovering uncertainly at a safe distance, and Bellamy almost, _almost_ tells her to beat a hasty retreat, but it’s too late for that. “We’re playing Slap or Kiss. Wanna join?”

He swears that her eyes flicker for a brief moment to Finn, to Raven, before something flashes across Clarke’s face and she shakes her head. “Um, I think I should probably—get back to the dropship.”

Octavia sighs. “You’re no fun,” she complains. “You and Bell.”

Bellamy feels her eyes on him, and he meets her gaze with a hooded stare. She studies him with a raised eyebrow, her face unreadable. Then Clarke turns back to the group.

“Hey, I’m fun,” she retorts. “I can be fun.”

“Prove it, then,” Jasper taunts.

She hesitates, and then casts another dubious glance at Bellamy, who’s still standing with his arms crossed defensively over his chest. He quirks an eyebrow at her in return.

“Fine, I’ll play,” she says, conceding, and then nods at Bellamy. “But only if he plays, too.”

His jaw tightens. “No thanks, Princess.”

“Come on.” She gestures at the circle. “One round.”

He glares at her, ignoring the way that the entire group is raptly watching their exchange in silence. “This is because you’re just dying to slap me, right?”

“Maybe,” she says, lifting a shoulder. “I bet I’m not the only one.”

“Just fucking _sit down_ ,” Octavia wheedles, and she rises so she can tug him by the wrist to the ground. “God, get a room already.”

Bellamy’s face flushes, and he glances around to make sure that nobody overheard. He’s relieved that the dim light of the bonfire makes it hard to read facial expressions.

It’s not as if he’s _interested_ in Clarke, per se. Because he’s not. They’re co-leaders, tentative allies after a few weeks of hostility and tension. Ever since that day in the bunker, ever since she saved his ass and managed to convince Jaha to pardon him, their dynamic has shifted. And he isn’t sure what to make of her anymore. If she’s not a snobbish princess with her nose up in the air, or a hopelessly idealistic do-gooder, he doesn’t know how to act around her.

But he’s pretty sure that she’s not sure about him, either. Not that he’s given her much reason to trust him. Between almost letting her drop into a pit to her death and working to undermine her efforts to bring the Ark to the ground for backup, he hasn’t been the most consistent ally, and it’s just starting to catch up to him.

Clarke Griffin is an enigma. He can’t read her, can’t decipher the looks she gives him from across the campsite when she thinks he’s not paying attention.

And it’s frustrating the hell out of him.

“So. How do we play?” Clarke asks, turning to Monty beside her.

“You spin the bottle—” Monty brandishes a broken glass bottle with jagged edges at the lip—“and whoever it lands on has to leave the circle, while the rest of us vote if you get to slap or kiss them when they come back.”

Clarke hums, considering this. “Do I get a vote?”

“Nope,” Jasper pipes up with a wide grin. “It’s, like, completely undemocratic.”

Bellamy heaves a sigh, and Octavia elbows him in the ribs.

“Why am I playing this, again?” he mutters.

“Because,” she shoots back, which is totally not a viable explanation, but it’s clear that this is the end of the discussion because Octavia grabs the bottle for her spin.

And so the game continues, with Bellamy looking on in disdain as Octavia lands on Miller and ends up practically in his lap as she kisses him far too enthusiastically for his liking. Then Jasper gets slapped by Harper, and Raven kisses Monroe, and Monty slaps Finn, and they’re passing around a flask of pungent moonshine and getting completely sloshed.

Then it’s his turn.

“Fuck,” he grumbles, amid a chorus of drunken cheers. But he takes the bottle and sets it in the middle of the circle, just to shut them all up, and spins.

He doesn’t watch the bottle teeter and leave a trail in the dirt—for some reason, his eyes find Clarke’s across the circle, and they stare at each other for a long moment. A foreign peal of heat shoots up his spine, and he blinks, confused at the sensation, before realizing that the bottle landed on Raven.

She groans, and raises her hands in surrender as she paces toward the dropship while the rest of the group votes.

It’s evenly split, but the group comes to a narrow decision in favor of a kiss. Bellamy doesn’t miss the flash of venom in Finn’s eyes, but he also can’t pretend that he doesn’t see Clarke diverting her gaze to her boots.

There isn’t much time to ponder that—Raven’s back, and she’s sitting back on her heels, an eyebrow cocked defensively at Bellamy. “Let’s go, Blake,” she drawls, and, shaking his head, he rises and crosses the circle to crouch in front of her. And it’s like she already knows what he’s about to do before he has the chance to lean in, because she parts her lips expectantly and winds a hand behind his neck, pulling him in.

It’s a sloppy kiss, tongue and teeth, vigorous and completely for show. And maybe it’s the moonshine coursing through his veins, or maybe it’s for another reason entirely, but Bellamy gives into a little because as much as Raven gets on his last nerve half the time, she’s—well, Raven.

She runs her tongue over his bottom lip before he pulls away, and makes a show of wiping her mouth with the back of her hand to raucous laughter from the group before winking suggestively. Bellamy rolls his eyes, but in spite of himself, the corner of his mouth lifts.

And then he catches a glimpse of Clarke as he takes his seat again.

She’s scowling. Not a completely foreign thing, especially because he’s seen that scowl directed at him more times than he can count, but there’s something shining in her eyes that is unfamiliar, unexpected. She meets his eyes again fleetingly, and then her eyes dart away. The hint of a smirk pulling at his lips falls away as he folds his arms over his chest again.

Whatever’s going on right now, he’s not interested in trying to work through it. If Princess wants to send mixed signals, let her. He’s not playing games with her. He has more important things to worry about.

So, she hates him. Fine. It’s something he’s gotten used to lately, being hated. So be it.

When O passes him the flask, he takes a deep swig, grimacing as the moonshine burns a trail down his throat. He’s done with this fucking game, and it’s as good a time as any to get drunk.

It’s Clarke’s spin, and he refuses to watch. Listens to the bottle skate over the bumpy surface of the ground and wobble to a stop, waits for the eruption from the group when the bottle finds its target. But instead, he hears silence.

He cuts a glance out of the corner of his eye.

The jagged lip is pointing directly at him.

Bellamy’s eyebrows shoot up, and, without thinking, he looks at Clarke. She stares back at him, wide-eyed, mouth slightly ajar, looking more than a little horrified. His ego, a little bruised at this point, kicks in.

“No.” He shakes his head, vehement. “No way.”

Clarke stares, still gaping.

“Aw, come on,” Jasper says, breaking the silence. “You can’t just back out now. The bottle has spoken!”

“I told you guys, he’s afraid of getting slapped,” Raven cuts in. “Especially by the princess. Look at him.”

Bellamy scoffs. “I’m not—afraid,” he says, jutting out his chin defiantly. “I just don’t want to play this stupid fucking game anymore, all right?”

“You agreed to one round, and it’s not over yet,” Octavia objects. “Clarke gets her turn, and then you can leave if you want, okay?” She elbows him hard in the side.

“I think I’ll take a pass on this,” Clarke says suddenly, and everyone in the circle snaps to attention.

“What?!” Jasper exclaims. “No, that’s not how the game works!”

Clarke bites her lip, but doesn’t say anything else. Bellamy stares.

“Nobody’s backing out,” Monty says finally, and the tension breaks for a moment. “Bellamy, go to the dropship. We’re gonna vote.”

There’s a long silence, and finally, Bellamy stands and stalks off to the dropship. He brushes through the dividing curtains, finds a group of kids huddled in the corner laughing about something, and he snaps. “Get out,” he growls, and one of the boys jolts in fear. “Now!”

They clear out, and Bellamy’s alone. He plants himself on an upturned bucket and waits there, head in his hands, while they deliberate out there over what Clarke should do to him.

And he knows already, right? She hates him, and he just _knows_ in his bones that it’s going to be a slap. She hates him, even if she’s doing a better job of hiding it lately, and he hates her right back for being so prim and self-righteous and fucking— _god_. He hates her, but it’s taken this weird turn so that when he sees her now, his gut twists in this not-entirely-unpleasant way and he feels this kind of stirring in his chest that he chalks up to a sort of frustration that comes with being unable to read her as well as he used to. She’s frustrating, and he hates her for it, and he hates himself for kind of anticipating the way her palm will feel against his cheek as it leaves a stinging imprint behind.

So, yeah. It’s a slap, and he doesn’t need to wait here wondering about the inevitable. Knowing the satisfaction it’ll bring to the group. Bellamy, the pompous ass, getting slapped around by the princess. He knows how it’ll look.

“Bell.” It’s Octavia, parting the curtain, and poking her head through with a completely unreadable expression. “We’re ready.”

He gets up, walks behind his sister back to the fire, and it’s silent but for the popping and crackling of the burning logs. He ignores the way everyone’s eyes follow him back to his seat. He settles down, fixes his eyes on the ground, determined to remain stoic.

And then Clarke’s in front of him, kneeling on the ground before him, her body invading his space. He looks up, face drawn, and she stares back at him with her jaw squared and her hand curled into a fist, tight at her side.

“Get it over with, already,” he mutters, and something flashes in her eyes that he doesn’t quite recognize. Clarke shuffles closer, so that his knees bracket her hips. He can see her breath in the cool air hanging between them like a fog.

He licks his lips involuntarily, sees that her eyes drop briefly to follow the movement before darting back up to meet his own.

And suddenly, she’s kissing him.

Bellamy doesn’t respond right away—he freezes when her lips crash into his, when she tugs on his jacket collar to bring him closer to her. But something in him gives way, and he moves a hand up to curl his fingers into her hair. He feels her lips curling against his in a smirk. He slumps back, his free hand splayed behind him to anchor him, to keep him from sinking to the ground and pulling her down with him. It takes everything in his power not to do that.

When Clarke pulls away, they’re both struggling for breath. He retracts his hand, his thumb trailing down the curve of her cheek, and a jolt of energy has him pulling his hand back like he’s been shocked. He’s dimly aware of the way that O is gawking at the two of them, at the way everyone is clapping and dissolving into hysterics at the display, but Bellamy can only stare uncomprehendingly into Clarke’s eyes, trying to make sense of what just happened.

But she only blinks, and, shyly inclining her head, she slips back to her side of the circle.

“You about done, Bell?” Octavia whispers, leaning into him a few moments later, once Monroe’s taken the bottle for her spin and everyone has redirected their attention at last.

Bellamy glances at Clarke, and her eyes flit away, but the healthy flush high in her cheeks is unmistakable.

He shakes his head, mostly to clear the fog gathering in his mind, and touches a hand absently to the corner of his mouth.

“Not even close.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SURPRISE, I wrote another part because I can't stop obsessing over these two idiots. Canon-divergent, set during 1x09.

In spite of Octavia’s noble attempts to drag him into the throng of happy drunk kids, Bellamy shrugs her off with a laugh. He might not be a big fan of Unity Day, but his sister makes a respectable attempt. He prefers to stand at the periphery, especially since he stupidly gave in and played Slap or Kiss a couple of nights ago.

No, he likes watching from the outside. Standing at a comfortable distance, close enough to his tent that he can slip away unnoticed if he needs to, but just close enough that he can take in the scene. Jasper and Monty, doling out shots of Unity Day moonshine. Miller, somehow coerced into a game of Flip Cup, and sporting a rare grin. If it wasn’t Unity Day, if it wasn’t a holiday that meant something to these kids who haven’t had much cause for celebration lately, Bellamy might be concerned about the blazing bonfires, the raucous laughter. But he’s decidedly fine with it.

Bellamy smiles, in spite of himself. They’re happy, and he can’t help but take a little pleasure in that. Let them drink the night away, and leave the worrying to him. He’s good at that.

He polishes an apple on his shirt and takes a satisfied bite. No moonshine for him, not after the other night. Not until he knows that he can trust himself not to lose control again. 

It’s like Clarke can read his mind. He sees her across camp, speaking animatedly to Monroe and Sterling where a bunch of them are playing beer pong, her hand on Monroe’s shoulder. And he realizes again that he couldn’t have been more wrong about her. She might have been a princess on the Ark, but down here, she’s one of them. They respect her, _like her_ , even, and even though he knows how to command the attention of a crowd, she appeals to them.

There are a lot of things about Clarke Griffin that Bellamy is starting to reevaluate, and it’s kind of fucking with his brain.

She must sense the weight of his gaze on her, must have some weird sort of intuition, because she glances up suddenly and meets his eyes in the flickering orange light.

He doesn’t look away.

It’s not like he’s been avoiding her these past few days. It’s just that—he’s had guard duty, and there was a hunting excursion yesterday, and, well. If he hasn’t poked his head into the dropship and found her at work with a patient, that’s not exactly his fault. He’s been busy.

At least, it’s easier to tell himself that.

She touches Sterling’s shoulder and says something to the group gathered around the table before she extricates herself and crosses the camp to get to Bellamy. For some reason, his heart clenches, but he checks himself. It’s just Clarke.

She falls into place beside him. “Hey.”

He lifts his chin. “Hey.” He takes another bite of his apple, and the crunch fills the silence between them.

“You look like you’re really enjoying yourself,” she says dryly.

“I could say the same about you,” he lobbies back, but he finds himself smiling at her. She smiles back at him, ducking her head a little, and his heart stutters.

“Yeah, well.” Clarke shrugs. “I’m not exactly in the mood for a party right now.”

He nods. “Worried about the Grounders?”

“That, and the fact that the comms cut out this morning and they’re still completely dead.” Clarke sighs. “It’s been total radio silence from the Ark.”

Bellamy raises an eyebrow. “Best Unity Day ever,” he deadpans.

He’s half-joking, but he’s still kind of surprised when she actually lets out a breathy laugh at that.

“Well, I’ve got security covered at the gates. And the dropships are coming down in two days.” Bellamy gives her a pointed look. “That means your mom’s gonna be here before you know it, and you can pretty much forget about all of _this._ ”

Clarke huffs. “I guess.”

“So you should have a drink. Relax.” He turns his gaze back to the scene unfolding before him. He can’t imagine this kind of controlled chaos happening under the Council’s watch.

“I could use more than one,” Clarke admits after a beat.

Bellamy smiles. “Then _have_ more than one.”

She watches him for a moment, an unreadable expression overtaking her features, before it clears and she nudges him in the side. “Have one with me.”

He reels a little at that. “What?”

“It’s our last bit of freedom, like you said. Might as well take advantage of it.” Clarke studies him, crossing her arms over her chest like it’s a challenge. “I mean, unless you’ve got something better to do.”

Bellamy stutters. It’s that same feeling that washed over him back in the bunker, when his hand found purchase on her hip as he helped her find the right shooting stance, as she took aim at the target on the wall.

“I, uh—” But there’s no plausible excuse, and Clarke knows that, because she’s got her eyebrow cocked like she’s waiting to shoot down whatever he comes up with. So Bellamy sighs, surrendering. “Yeah, sure.”

“I’m flattered,” she deadpans, but she grins anyway.

Jasper and Monty are holding court at the keg, pouring out draughts of moonshine and cracking jokes. Octavia’s practically hanging on Jasper’s shoulder, and the kid looks way too smug for his own good. She perks up when she sees them approaching.

“Hey, big brother!” she drawls, pushing off Jasper’s shoulder and smacking a sloppy kiss to Bellamy’s cheek. “Finally decided to stop being a total buzzkill?”

He ruffles her hair. “Hi to you, too, O.”

“Here ya go, Clarke,” Jasper says as he pours out a generous shot of moonshine into a tin cup. Then he grins a toothy grin at Bellamy. “You, too.”

Clarke takes a hearty swig, then grimaces. “Ack. It’s like drinking battery acid.”

“It tastes better after a couple of shots,” Monty says with a wink.

“Trying to kill me?” Bellamy mutters to Clarke. She smiles.

“Maybe.”

He throws back the shot. It burns a trail of fire down his throat, and he grits his teeth, but against his better judgment, he accepts another one from Jasper. So much for self-control.

Clarke touches his elbow, inclining her head in the direction of the tents. “Come on.”

He starts to follow her, but then Octavia’s clinging to his arm. “Wait, Bell, aren’t you gonna play beer pong or something? You can’t just duck out now.”

Clarke glances over her shoulder at Octavia. “I’ll see if I can talk him into it,” she says, and Octavia releases her hold on Bellamy’s arm with a sly smile.

“Yeah, I bet.”

Bellamy barely acknowledges her comment, but he feels a flush creeping up the back of his neck.

Octavia’s acting like she knows something that he doesn’t, and he badly wants to tell her she’s wrong, that he doesn’t feel anything for Clarke. But he’s the only person aside from their mother that she knows, _really_ knows, and she’s got a radar for bullshit. It’s no use, and it’s not like he feels like talking about it anyway.

Besides, it’s not as if their relationship has changed substantially, since the other night. He’ll chalk it up to a lot of moonshine, and the parameters of that stupid game. They’re still co-leaders. They’re still—friends. Kind of.

Even if he’s been thinking about the way her lips felt against his ever since that kiss, and berating himself every time the thought enters his mind. Not that it counts. Because it was a _fucking_ _game_.

He follows Clarke to the edge of the camp. It’s quieter here, and the shadows from the oak trees bordering the gate plunge the area into near darkness. The guard posts are lit by lanterns, and there’s a faint glow from the nearest post a couple hundred feet to their right, so he can just barely make out her face when they settle down onto a log bench.

“So.” Clarke takes a liberal sip from her tin. “What’s your deal with Unity Day? And, like, festivities in general.”

Bellamy squints. “What do you mean?”

“You’re always… I don’t know. Aloof?” She shakes her head. “No, that’s not the word. I mean, you just kind of hover on the sidelines.”

“I think the word you’re looking for is _total dick_ ,” he supplies, and Clarke laughs.

“No, you’re not.” She kind of glances at him out of the corner of her eye, turning her focus to her cup of moonshine. “You’re an asshole sometimes, but not a total dick.”

“Wow, thanks.”

Clarke smiles, but she still isn’t looking at him. “You know what I meant.”

It’s quiet for a moment. He wonders if she’s thinking about what they talked about that night under the tree, how she tried to tell him that he’s not a monster. Somehow, it doesn’t feel like he is, at least when he’s with her.

“You never answered my question,” she says. “Why do you stay away?”

He takes a sip of moonshine. “Um.” He waits for Clarke to look up at him, expectant. “You barely know me. You really think you’re ready to unlock my tragic backstory?”

Clarke musters a laugh, but she looks completely serious. “I know you did everything you could to protect Octavia on the Ark. I know you shot the chancellor because you wanted to protect her down here.” She shrugs. “Try me.”

Bellamy sighs. “I didn’t have much of a life on the Ark. Hard to believe, I know.” He traces the rim of the tin cup with his thumb while he talks. “Everything I did was for O, or our mom. I stopped going to school, joined the Guard, did whatever I had to do to take extra rations and keep them safe during random compartment checks.”

Clarke nods. “That must have been hard.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t really think about it that way. I just did what I had to do. Until that Unity Day masquerade.”

So he explains it all—his impulsive decision to let Octavia have a little fun for once in her goddamn life, and how it all ended with her in the Sky Box and a death sentence for their mother.

“I fucked up,” he says, and he’s surprised by how easily the words slip out. How easily he’s able to admit it to Clarke, of all people. “And I guess—since then, I haven’t really felt like I could, you know. Relax. Let loose.”

Clarke is quiet for a moment, but then she cracks a small smile. “That’s pretty ironic, coming from the ‘whatever the hell we want’ guy.”

Bellamy can’t help himself. He manages a wry smile in response. “It wasn’t a great fit.”

She hums in agreement, and a companionable silence falls between them. He takes another swig of his drink. It still burns going down, but he definitely feels warmth seeping into his veins. Maybe it’s the moonshine.

He won’t allow himself to consider the alternative, that it might have anything to do with the girl sitting next to him, dangerously close. So close, their fingers are brushing.

It’s stupid, just how much her presence is affecting him right now.

“The other night, though.” Clarke inches a little closer to him, and he looks up at her, startled. “Didn’t seem like much of a stretch for you. Letting your guard down, and everything.”

Bellamy rubs the back of his neck with his free hand. “Um.” He forces a laugh. “You kind of forced my hand.”

“True.” She drains the rest of her moonshine and kind of leans into his shoulder. Bellamy suppresses a shiver. “You were right, though. It was a stupid game.”

 “Did we actually just agree on something?” he jokes, nudging her side.

Clarke glances up at him, and the lantern lights reflect in her eyes. “Don’t even think about telling anyone.”

“Yeah, we’ve got a reputation to uphold.” He leans back onto his hands. “Can’t have anyone thinking that we actually get along, or there might be anarchy.”

She rests her head on his shoulder. It’s intimate, and it catches him a little off guard, but he doesn’t shrug her off. “Wouldn’t want that.”

“For the record?” He waits for her to look up at him, hopes that she can’t tell that his pulse is racing. “Could have been worse, if someone else had spun on me.” His lips quirk up into a shy smile. He’s not used to feeling like this. “Glad it was you, Princess.”

Clarke raises an eyebrow.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” she says, and he swears that she’s blushing.

He leans into her so that their foreheads touch, and maybe it’s a mistake, but he doesn’t think that he’s misinterpreting the way she’s looking up at him through her eyelashes. Maybe he’s not big on letting his guard down, but—fuck it. It feels right.

Their lips meet, and it’s nothing like the fervent kiss they shared a few nights ago. There’s no chorus of drunken delinquents egging them on, no suspenseful lead-up giving way to surprise. It’s slow, relaxed, their lips slanting against each other with ease, like they’ve got all the time in the world to revel in this moment.

Bellamy knows they don’t—the Grounders are mobilizing, and the Council is coming to the ground in a matter of days, and everything that he and Clarke have built together is about to crash down around them—but it feels like they’re on a different plane of existence, and oddly, he’s okay with that.

Her hands curl into his hair, and he pulls her into him. It feels inevitable. This was bound to happen, eventually. He feels it deep in his bones.

And there’s so much to figure out—her thing with Finn, and how they’ll manage to lead together—but he doesn’t care.

They’ll figure something out.

She pulls away first, fitting her forehead against his, and he chases her lips, but she just smiles.

“Slow down,” she says, grinning. “We’ve got time.”

He smiles in spite of himself.

“Yeah.” He locks their fingers together, and squeezes. “We’ve got time, Princess.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr at thehungagayums.tumblr.com and see for yourself how much Bellamy Blake has wrecked me (read: completely).


End file.
